


A Lighter in the Trench Coat

by basinnit



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood, DSMP, Dream Smp, Gen, Mentioned Ranboo, Mentioned Tommy, No Dialogue, and a maniac, honestly wilbur is a dick, mentions of injury, mentions of the void, mentions of wilbur death, no beta we die like tommyinnit, not really angst or fluff its just a penny for my thoughts you know, ranboo having a mental breakdown, resurrected wilbur, rubble of l'manburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:43:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basinnit/pseuds/basinnit
Summary: There's a man, standing in the crater of L'Manburg, trench coat, curly hair, blood dripping from his left hand, wearing a familiar insane smile on his lips.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	A Lighter in the Trench Coat

**Author's Note:**

> So how yall doing tonight. 
> 
> Saw someone go "WIlbur waking up in the rubble of L'Manburg" and my brain went this is free real estate. Yup. Have some food, wilbur nation.
> 
> Follow me on twitter I'm not super funny or anything, I'm just stupid <3   
> @basinnit.

It’s weird to be made out of blood and flesh again. The feeling of wind on his face, his hair just as long as when he died, bouncing slightly from the flow of air. Same clothes, same hole in the middle of his shirt, reminding him of his death, of the way he begged to be killed. The same lighter in the right pocket of the trench coat.

The rubble looks worse than he left it.

There's a lot of some weird, red shit sprawled across the bottom of it, squeezing between some higher rocks, carving its way through the granite and andesite. When he thinks about it more, he's pretty sure Tommy mentioned something about it in the Void, between the panicked apologies muttered under his breath and cussing him out every second he could. He's not sure, it's not like he was actually listening to whatever Tommy was saying.

He can't gather his thoughts. Not when he moves from the ground and his bones creak, making him wince. There's a weird tickling in his legs, a whole desert in his mouth, and a weird sensation in the tips of his fingers. His ears are ringing and when he closes his eyes, he's standing in the room, half of the wall gone, the TNT going off making him lose his hearing for a while. Maybe it was permanent because the rubble is so quiet. There are not even birds singing, only the sounds of his shaky breaths. Maybe he's imagining those.

He sticks his hands deeper into the pockets of the trench coat, right hand tightening around the old lighter that always brought him comfort. It's weird to feel things under the tips of his tingling fingers, and he squeezes the lighter tighter, spinning around, watching. This is not the L'Manburg he blew up. He caught a glimpse of it before his death, before the frantic realization of what he had done punched him in the face, knocking the air out of his lungs. Looking at the rubble, he hears the explosions, the screams, the panicked cries of people he considered friends and family, the screams of victory from a man worse than the devil himself. This, whatever it was, was not his doing.

Above his head, there is glass, as if the crater was some sort of live exposition, a groggy reminder of "there once stood houses of the people we all know, there was once a place people called home", yet he supposes it was never home to begin with if it ended up like that. He squints, his left hand coming out of the pocket to shelter his eyes from the sun. Far up, he can see the remains of some buildings, balloons, whatever the fuck that place had once going on. If he was the one blowing it up, he would've made sure nothing remained.

Even further up he notices the obsidian grids, casting shadows onto the glass, rocks, and vines scattered around him. It's noon. The obsidian makes him flinch and it doesn't take him long to realize what must've happened here. He looks away, down onto his feet, forcing himself to look at the crater once again. There, in the middle of the stone, bloody bedrock, andesite, and gravel stand a flag with red vines wrapped around it, squeezing it between the leaves and something he dares to call tentacles in his mind. Without thinking, he rushes through the rubble, inhaling the smell of gravel, wet dirt, and gunpowder.

He trips over some rock and cuts his hand open on the sharp edge of the stone. There's a curse leaving his lips before he can stop himself - his voice is hoarse and the blood dripping down his hand makes him shiver. It's weird, to have blood again and for a second he forgets about the ruins, the vines, and the gunpowder in the air. He has a body, made out of flesh, blood, and bones. It's weird to be alive.

Soon, he stands in front of the flag and closes his eyes for a second.

never once in his life has he felt better than when that place went to shit. Pressing that fucking button was both the best and the worst memory he had ever made, and when he opens his eyes again, he rushes closer, dragging his bloody hand over his pants to get rid of it. He grabs the vines and tears them away from the flag.

He wonders if he can set that damn plant on fire.

The vines feel weirdly velvety under his fingers and he forces the urge to cringe down his throat. He throws them onto the ground and steps on them for good measure, his chest swelling in something he hasn't felt in a long time. The ringing in his ears stops.

The glass above him is creaking. Someone is walking over the crater, either just to pass it or to let the memories rush over them. Was it guilt, he thinks? Was it relief?

He raises his head to figure out who is it. There stands a kid, taller than the man in the rubble, clenching a book in his hand like his life depended on it. Maybe it did, he thinks. He looks nervous, frozen at the sight of a stranger in the ruins of L'Manburg. Or maybe the kid knows something because his eyes seem to widen at the realization of something, anything.

He heard a lot about him from Tommy. The one who visited him in exile, the one who lives with Techno and Phil, the one who Dream seemed to mention more than once in the prison.

The boy swallows, eyes moving frantically over the rubble, before stopping them at the man again. He looks like he wishes it was a dream, a sick joke that wasn't actually true.

For once since he died, Wilbur smiles again, in the same way, he did when L'Manburg blew up behind his back, the sensation of Phil's sword in his stomach killing him. The kid gulps, watching in tension as Wilbur raises his right hand, still holding a lighter, and puts two fingers to his head in a mockery of a salute.

The kid stumbles backward.


End file.
